Sorrow You Can Hold
by Enthusiastic Fish
Summary: How do you heal from sudden, intense grief? How do you mourn? Tim finds out. The hard way. OC death. Already complete. Eight chapters and an epilogue. One per day, as usual.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is a story I hadn't planned on writing, but ended up needing to. It makes extensive use of my personal fanon for Tim which you can find on my profile and in some of my stories, _Only an Accident_ in particular. It's about grieving for a sudden loss and the healing that can come from it.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own NCIS, but I will claim my OCs. However, I'm not making any money on any of them.

* * *

**Sorrow You Can Hold  
**by Enthusiastic Fish

_Sorrow you can hold, however desolating, if nobody speaks to you.  
__If they speak, you break down. ~Bede Jarrett_

**Chapter 1**

"_How old are you now, Tim?"_

"Old enough that you don't need to ask that every time, Dad," Tim said with a grin, glad that _someone_ realized it was his birthday.

"_Oh, come on. You're only as old as you feel."_

"Dad," Tim said, laughing, "I'm not old enough for that to apply."

"_Contradicting ourselves, are we?"_

"No. I'm not. I'm old enough not to need questions and young enough not to worry about how I feel."

"_Clever. You should have been a lawyer, Tim. You and your mother with your slick words."_

"I don't have them when it matters, Dad."

"_Sure, you do, Tim. Remember what Syrus said? 'Speech is the mirror of the soul; as a man speaks, so is he.'"_

"So, I'm a stammerer, huh?"

"_No, Tim. You're eloquent when you need to be. When it counts, you always know what to say."_

"Dad, that's..." Tim stopped when suddenly he heard his father groan. "Dad? What is it? What's wrong?"

All he could hear was his dad's rapid breathing.

"Dad!"

Then, he heard another sound.

"_Sam? Sam! NO!"_

The phone clunked to the ground and disconnected. Tim was left holding his phone shouting uselessly into it, knowing that calling back wouldn't help. After a few seconds, he stopped. He just sat holding his phone breathing heavily, staring at it...somehow knowing what the next call would be. He didn't know how he knew but he did all the same. His mother would call him...and give him the news. All he could do was wait. It didn't occur to him to call anyone else. It was nearly midnight. It didn't occur to him to move. He couldn't even feel his legs. He didn't even sit down. He was standing like a statue in the middle of his apartment, in shock. His breathing was about as rough as his dad's had been.

What could he do? Nothing. Nothing could be done. He couldn't stop whatever was happening (although he knew what was happening) in Ohio. He couldn't talk to anyone there. He couldn't give any news to anyone because, until he heard from someone, he didn't think he could say the words. He just stood, holding onto his phone as though...more than his life depended on it.

"Dad," he whispered. "Dad."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The phone didn't ring for another three hours. Tim had not moved in all that time. He simply was waiting, desperate for communication but knowing, even in the midst of his shock, that he had to wait to be called. He couldn't do the calling himself.

He didn't jump when the phone rang, but it took all his strength to answer it.

"Mom?" he asked.

There were no words at first. Nothing from his usually stoic mother. No comfort. No bereavement. Just breathing. Shaky inhalations, soft exhalations.

"Mom?" he asked again.

"_He's...He's gone, Tim," _Naomi whispered. _"Your father...he's gone."_

"What happened?" Tim asked, not needing to, but doing it just the same.

"_A pulmonary embolism. It was too much...for his heart. His body just couldn't...couldn't fight it anymore. He was dead...before the ambulance arrived."_

More breathing. Naomi's was soft, shaky and slow. Tim's was fast, irregular. ...but neither of them was showing much more emotion than that. There was an edge of tears in Naomi's voice but that was all.

"_Oh, Tim. Your father is dead. Sam's gone."_

"He...was wishing me a happy birthday," Tim said. "We were just talking."

"_I know. He was supposed to have a meeting tonight but it was cancelled. He said he was so glad because it gave him a chance to bug you."_ A short, sharp laugh, quickly cut off.

"Was it a thrombosis?"

"_Probably. We won't know for sure until the...the autopsy."_

"Yeah. Mom..."

"_Yes?"_

"Do you want me to call Sarah?"

"_Could you? She'll need to hear it and have someone right there. She can't take it over the phone."_

Tim nodded, still staring blankly ahead of him. His whole apartment could fall to pieces around him and he wouldn't have noticed. It was as though his entire life now revolved around speaking to his mother on the phone...the same phone on which he'd been speaking to his father only a few short...interminable hours ago.

"Should I wait until morning?" he asked, feeling helpless.

"_I...I don't know, Tim,"_ Naomi said, projecting the same helplessness. _"What you think is best... It's three a.m. over there isn't it?"_

Tim looked down at his watch. "Yeah. Yeah, it is...same as in Ohio."

Another horrid short laugh. _"Of course. Of course it is. Maybe you should wait. There's nothing...oh, nothing anyone can do."_

"Mom, is anyone with you right now?"

"_No. There was no time to call."_

"You should call Melissa. She won't care if you wake her up."

"_Oh, I couldn't. I'm just..."_

"I'll call her for you, Mom," Tim said. His voice was as calm as ever. Only his breathing showed how shocked he was.

"_You don't need to do that, Tim."_

"No. I will. As soon as I get off with you. I'll call Melissa and she can come to the hospital."

Tim could tell that, for once, Naomi was glad to have someone telling her what to do and what would be done. It spoke to the level of shock she herself was feeling. Grief would come later...not much later but later just the same.

"_All right, Tim. Tim...call me in the morning, okay? No matter what. Call me in the morning."_

"I will. First thing. When Melissa gets there, you get some sleep."

"_I love you, Tim."_

"I love you, Mom." Tim paused and then hung up the phone.

A few seconds of breathing, then he dialed a number he'd known since he was a teenager.

"_Who is it?" _came the groggy voice.

"Melissa."

"_Who is this?"_

"It's Tim. Melissa, I need you to...to go to the hospital and pick up my mom."

She was wide awake now. He heard her shush her husband who was grumbling beside her.

"_What happened, Tim?"_

"My dad died."

"_Oh, no. Tim...I'm so sorry."_

"Yeah. Me...too. Mom's at the hospital. Could you go and get her...and make sure she gets home all right?"

"_Of course, Tim. I'll go right now. How is she taking it?"_

"Like always." Tim managed a smile at that.

"_Of course. You both are such troopers. Don't worry about a thing, Tim. Naomi will be safe with me."_

"I know, Melissa. Thanks."

"_Does Sarah know yet?"_

"No. I'm going to tell her."

"_All right. I'm sorry, Tim."_

"Yeah. Thanks." Tim hung up and stared at the phone in his hand. It was strange. He loved his phone. He had it with him at all times. It could do so much for him. It connected him to his family when he couldn't be there. It connected him with his colleagues and friends at work. It helped him do his job. ...but it couldn't bring his dad back. His dad was dead, gone forever. Still, he stood in the middle of his apartment, staring at his phone.

"Dad," he said again, wishing that it would bring him back...but he knew it wouldn't. He knew it. His father had died...as they had known he would one of these years. He just hadn't expected it would be so soon. They should have had years more before his body shut down. It wasn't fair.

Alone in his apartment at three in the morning, Tim stood...unable to mourn, unable to cry...unable to do anything except stand and wish for something that could never be.

His dad was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

By five a.m., Tim had managed to sit down. Otherwise, he still felt a lot like he had felt at the moment the phone had been disconnected. His breathing was at least quieter, but he felt so numb that he wasn't sure he would be able to manage getting through the day. He didn't know what to do. Should he call Sarah and then go home? Should he wait and go to work? If he went to work would he even be able to do anything important? How would he tell his friends? _Would_ he tell them? He should...but at the moment, he couldn't fathom saying the words out loud.

By the time six o'clock rolled around, he still hadn't slept...but he wasn't tired. Instead, he started getting ready for the day. The outside world seemed very far away, but fell into the security of his morning routine. He showered. He fed and walked Jethro. He got dressed to go to work. Then...only then did he feel that he could call Sarah.

He picked up his phone. He did _not_ want to make this call. Sarah would freak out. She would cry. She was liable to become hysterical...but he knew he had to do it...because his mother was right. Sarah couldn't handle a long distance notification.

"_Tim, it's way too early for you to be calling me. I don't have a class for hours,"_ she mumbled.

"Sarah, I need to talk to you. In person. I'll be at your dorm in about ten minutes."

Sarah was awake. _"Tim, what is it?"_

"I'll tell you when I get there. Just be outside and ready, okay?"

"_Okay. But...Tim..."_

"In person, Sarah." He could tell that she was already getting freaked out, but it would be better if he was just there at the beginning. He said good-bye and then sat for a moment. A distant part of him considered calling NCIS and telling them that he wouldn't be there, but he couldn't do that. Instead, he brought up his voice mail and recorded a new message.

"_Hello, you've reached Timothy McGee. If you're calling from work, I'm sorry but I won't be in for a while today. I might be late or I might be unable to come in at all. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."_

That was all he could bear at the moment. When he felt able to speak of it, he would. Right now, though, he could only focus on telling Sarah the news. That would be hard enough. With a deep breath, he gathered all his strength and walked out of his apartment.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Tim, what's going on? Why couldn't you just tell me on the phone?"

Tim walked over to a bench and sat down. "Sarah, please."

"What _is_ it, Tim? You're scaring me."

"Sit down, please, Sarah."

Sarah walked over and sat down. "Okay, I'm sitting. Now _what_?"

"Dad's dead," Tim said bluntly, unable to think of a nice way of putting it.

"What?" Sarah asked, growing still, her impatience draining away.

"Dad died."

"When?"

"Last night."

"How?"

"A pulmonary embolism."

"I..." Sarah stopped talking. It was building. She would break down soon enough. There were already tears in her eyes.

"I was talking to him on the phone."

"When?"

"When he died," Tim said.

"You _knew_?" Sarah shouted. "You knew right when it happened and you didn't _tell_ me?"

"I didn't know if he was dead," Tim said, although that was a lie. He had known inside. "I didn't know until Mom called me back."

"Why didn't she call _me_? Aren't I a part of this family? Don't I deserve to know?"

"Sarah, she only called me because I had been talking to Dad. She would have waited until this morning to call me if I hadn't been."

"Don't you think _I_ should have known, too?"

Tim knew what would slip out of her mouth if Sarah kept on this track. It had often enough before and it would hurt both of them if she said it.

"I'm sorry, Sarah. Maybe I should have called you right away. I just..."

"Just _what_?"

"I didn't know if I could say it right then. I...couldn't say it...because that would make it real. I'm sorry. It was selfish. I know." Tim took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Sarah."

As he had known it would, Sarah's anger gave way to grief almost instantly and she hugged Tim tightly as she began to cry.

"It's not fair, Tim. Dad can't die! He's had problems but...but he's always got through it. It's a mistake."

"It's not a mistake, Sarah," Tim said. "It's not a mistake."

His phone started ringing. He reached down and turned it off.

"Why did _you_ get to say good-bye?"

Tim winced inwardly. "I didn't get to say good-bye. We were just talking, Sarah."

"But _you_ were talking to him. I hadn't...I was going to call home. I just was waiting until the weekend. It's not fair."

"I know. I know it's not fair."

Sarah sniffled loudly. "Tim...what do we do now?"

One more deep breath. "You need to tell your friends, pack some clothes and make sure your professors know that you'll be gone. Mom wanted me to call her and I'll do that on my way in to work."

"Work! Tim, you can't go to work!"

Tim laughed a little and looked down. "I'm not going to stay. I have to let them know and make sure it's all right for me to have time off. ...and if it's not...so that I can go anyway but they'll know where I am. I'll be back, okay?"

"When?"

"I don't know, but we'll leave today. Just...just give me some time. I promise, Sarah. I'll come to get you and we'll go home."

"Okay. Mom's not alone is she?"

"No. I called Melissa. I'm sure she stayed over."

Sarah managed a teary smile. "Yeah. I'll bet you couldn't... have pried her away with...with a crowbar." Then she hugged Tim again. "Dad can't die."

"You know what Dad would say, Sarah."

Sarah didn't pull back but she laughed through her tears. "'I am prepared to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the ordeal of meeting me is another matter.' Winston Churchill."

"Exactly. Dad was always ready. Just because we weren't doesn't mean that it can't happen."

"Did it hurt him?"

"Not for very long," Tim said, although his own heart seemed to clench painfully. "Mom said it was fast."

"Mom was there? It wasn't just you on the phone? Dad had someone with him?"

"Yeah. She was there. I heard her." But he didn't say that hearing his mom scream was about the worst moment of his life.

"Okay. Call me when you're coming over, Tim."

"I will. You can...go and cry on your friends' shoulders."

She smiled sadly and slugged him. "I just might."

"You should. It won't take me too long. We can probably leave by noon."

"Okay." Sarah finally stood up and walked back to her dorm without looking back.

Tim slumped down for a moment and then picked up his phone and turned it back on. He had three messages. He didn't particularly want to listen to them, but he did anyway.

"_Probie, what kind of a message is that? You'd better change it before the Boss calls you himself. He won't be impressed! Being busy is not a valid excuse for not being at work and not answering the phone. You'd better be sick or dead, McGee!"_

About what he had expected. Next message.

"_McGee, Gibbs is getting angry. Why have you changed your message? If you do not answer back soon, you know you will be in huge trouble."_

Tony. Ziva. Would it be Gibbs or Abby next?

"_McGee, if you don't show up here in the next half hour, you can just not bother coming at all."_

Gibbs. How long had it been since that message had been left? Tim checked his watched. Only five minutes. That meant he had to go in and explain himself. He didn't really _want_ to be fired, but...right now. He knew they would all berate him and not give him a chance to explain. Then, they'd feel bad about not listening to him first. Then, they'd try to say how sorry they were. Like Melissa. What did one really say to that kind of thing? Yep. Glad you're sorry. Glad you're not dancing on my dad's grave. He shook his head. He knew they meant it well, but, as anyone who had been in the same position knew already, being sorry didn't mean a whole heck of a lot. It didn't stop the dead from being dead. It didn't make the mourners any less mournful. All in all, it was simply a meaningless word in this context.

So far, however, Tim felt he'd dealt with everything pretty well. He had kept his head and made sure his mom wasn't alone. He had told Sarah, helped her deal with the immediate shock. Now, he was sure he could go and deal with NCIS and get out of there before heading to Ohio. Yes. It would all be fine. He could go and help plan the funeral and play his part. Yes.

He stood up and walked to his car, swallowing a few times before getting in.

Yes. It would all be okay. Somehow. He would _make_ it okay.

When he got into the car, he remembered that he had promised to call. He didn't think he could drive and talk at the same time. Not now. So he sat in the parking lot and dialed home.

"_Tim?"_ Naomi was back in form. Her voice calm, if still shaky.

"Hey, Mom. I told Sarah. We'll be coming home today. I just have to go into work and clear a few things up. Sarah's packing and telling her friends. It might not be until six, but we'll get home by the evening."

"_How are you doing, Tim?"_

"I'm okay. Really, Mom. I'm okay."

"_You sure you're not trying to convince yourself, Tim?"_

"I'm fine. I'll see you tonight. Are you all right?"

"_I'm gamely pushing on. Can't say much more than that. This house...it's so empty." _Tim heard a laugh. _"I never realized just how noisy your father...was. It's so quiet in here right now."_ Audible deep breath. _"I'll see you tonight and thanks for siccing Melissa on me. I needed that."_

"I knew you would."

"_Is anyone watching out for you?"_

"You are, Mom. Like always. I have to go before they fire me at work for not showing up on time."

"_Drive safe, Tim. Keep me updated, okay?"_

"I will. Love you."

"_I love you, Tim."_

Tim hung up once again, sighed and started his car. He didn't want to do this part, but he knew he needed to.

"Off we go," he said softly...and took a deep breath.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Tim sat in his car, staring at the steering wheel. He'd been in the parking lot near NCIS for ten minutes already, trying to get up the courage to go inside and tell them that his father had died. He would do it...and he had better do it soon. His phone had already rung twice more on his way over. If Gibbs held to his half hour injunction, Tim would get fired in...

_Five more minutes. That's all I have._

Finally, he gave in and opened the door of his car. He walked slowly into NCIS, passing through security, up the stairs into the bullpen. They were there. Working. He stopped in the shadows, not wanting to draw attention to himself...but at the same time craving it. In the flurry of finishing everything yesterday, no one had remembered his birthday. Even Sarah had forgotten. Only his father had taken the time to...

Deep breath.

He walked forward at a slow, unhurried pace.

"Well, look who just decided to grace us with his presence! Welcome to work, McGee," Tony said, loudly, just to make sure everyone noticed that Tim was coming in late.

"Thanks, Tony. I'm not staying," Tim said, keeping his voice level.

"What do you mean you are not staying, McGee?" Ziva asked. "Why are you leaving?"

Tim opened his mouth to say the words but then Gibbs came in.

"Where have you been, McGee? Nevermind, don't tell me. There's a lot of work to do."

"No, Boss," Tim said, still in the same quiet voice. However, he might as well have shouted for the effect it had on the rest of the team.

"What?" Gibbs asked.

"No, I can't stay. I just came to...to tell you all that..."

"What, McGee? You're dying?" Tony said sarcastically.

"No, Tony. ...but you're pretty close. I'm not dying."

Gibbs caught the slight emphasis in his voice. "Who is?" he asked, no long menacing.

Tim licked his lips once in nervousness. "No one is dying. My...my dad died last night. I'm...going to Ohio for a few days...if that's okay with you...actually, even it's not, but I hope you understand why I'm going."

"Your dad died? Man, I'm sorry, McGee."

There it was. The dreaded sorry. Again, Tim couldn't think what was the right way to respond. So he didn't.

"Do you mind, Boss?"

"Of course not, McGee," Gibbs said.

"It's just a few days. I don't know when the funeral is going to be yet, but...my mom's all alone in Ohio...now. I need to be there."

"Of course. Do you need anything?"

Tim shook his head. "Just time off. I can fill out the form and everything before I go..."

"No. That can wait. Let me know when your schedule is set."

"Okay. Thanks, Boss." Tim walked to his desk and sat down. After a few moments, he looked up and noticed they were all staring at him.

"Uh...McGee, what are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

Ziva walked over and touched his shoulder. "He means why are you not leaving right now?"

"Oh. I just have a couple of files I needed to send."

"That can wait."

"No. I...I need to send them now because I was supposed to yesterday but I put it off because..." Tim bit off his near-mention of his birthday. The idea of having any kind of a party...ever...seemed rather foreign to him at the moment...and he didn't want to make explicit the fact that his father had died on his birthday. "It won't take long. I don't want that hanging over me while I'm home."

"Are you all right?"

Tim managed a smile...although from Ziva and Tony's expressions, it wasn't very convincing. "Yeah. I'm...I'm okay. It was just so fast." He started absently running his fingers over the keyboard making little clicking noises. "One minute I was talking to him...the next...he was dying."

Ziva's touch became a strong grip. "I am sorry, McGee."

There was that word again. Tim refocused on his monitor. As he had said, it didn't take him very long to send off the files. They were simple things. A form for HR. An analysis for Intel. His final report on their last case. Simple. ...at this moment utterly meaningless, but Tim was aware enough to know that they would all become important to him again if he waited a week or so.

It didn't take long. He sent them. Checked his work email, did his usual morning scan...all in complete silence. No one else was speaking. Tim figured they would all be staring at him if he bothered to look up. So...he didn't bother, not until he was finished. Then, he stood up, forcing Ziva to release his arm and step back.

"I'm...sorry about the voice mail. I had...to go and tell Sarah...and I just...I don't know. I just...couldn't..." He took another long deep breath.

"It's all right, McGee," Gibbs said. "I get it."

"Thanks, Boss."

"Probie, you need a ride anywhere?"

Tim smiled. "No. Thanks, Tony. I'm just going to go and pack a few things, take Jethro to the kennel...and then I'm picking up Sarah and heading to Ohio." He shook his head, almost in disbelief. "To bury my dad." He laughed a little, very softly.

"Are you sure, you're all right, McGee?"

"I'm okay," Tim said again. "I'm not great, but I'm okay." He picked up his bag (which he didn't actually remembering grabbing when he left his apartment that morning) and started back toward the exit.

"McGee."

He turned back.

"Let us know when the funeral is, okay?" Gibbs asked.

"Okay." He gave a strange little wave and then left.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim drove home, packed, paying particular attention to what he put in his bag. He didn't want to look sloppy at his dad's funeral. As he walked around his room, into the bathroom, slowly filling the small bag, he kept thinking to himself.

_One thing at a time. One thing at time._

After he finished doing that, he called for Jethro.

"Hey, you ready for the kennel?"

Jethro put back his ears a bit. Not much.

"I know it's not the best place in the world, but it won't be for very long. I'll be back...probably next week. Okay?"

Jethro whined at him for just a moment but then pricked up his ears picked up his leash.

"Thanks, Jethro. Let's go."

It didn't take very long to drop him off, make arrangments for him to stay for a week. When he left the kennel, he called Sarah. She was outside waiting for him when he arrived at the dorm. He asked her to call home and tell Naomi they were on their way and then, continuing with his method of only focusing on one thing at a time, he started the drive home. By unspoken agreement, Sarah didn't speak and neither did he. In fact, after she hung up the phone, Sarah reclined her seat and seemed to fall asleep. Tim was grateful. He could only focus on one thing at a time. Driving...and only driving...nothing else until they got to Ohio.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim left a kind of shocked silence in his wake when he walked out of the bullpen. It was what he said, but it was more than that. It was how he had looked. While there had been no overt expression of his devastation, he had been walking around like he had been sucker-punched. It was a painful thing to see, and then, the way he had tried to keep things reasonable, had only emphasized the fact that he was operating on a kind of autopilot which would not allow anything outside of what he had decided was important.

"How old is...was McGee's dad?" Tony asked no one in particular.

"He could not have been very old. McGee is the oldest child. He was probably in his fifties or maybe early sixties."

"I've never seen McGee like that before."

"Nor have I. I never want to again."

"Do you think he told Abby?"

Ziva smiled a little. "I doubt it. From the look on his face, I do not think he could have tolerated it."

"Boss, do you think he'll really call and tell us when the funeral is?"

"He would not lie. He said he would," Ziva said.

"Boss?"

"He may not...but he'll make sure he reports on how much leave he needs," Gibbs said. "I'll be sure to ask him then. No sense in forcing him to call twice."

"As long as he calls once."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Naomi was sitting outside on the porch waiting for them to come. Nevermind that it wasn't really warm enough for that, she was there. When Tim and Sarah pulled up, she stood and walked to the car. She waited only long enough for them to get out and approach her. Then, she hugged her children tightly, needing them as much as they needed her.

...but only Sarah cried.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The house was still full of Sam McGee. There were the ramps to get inside...the low-lying bookcases full of books (well-read books)...the ramps inside the house...the structure of the kitchen...the master bedroom on the main floor... Just by looking at the place, you knew who had been there. Naomi had held dinner for Tim and Sarah and they ate in a strange sort of silence, not speaking much. Even Sarah kept quiet. The only time anyone spoke was when the phone rang, which it did fairly often...people calling to pay their respects, express their regret...wanting to help where no help was possible. After an hour or so of that, Naomi unplugged the phone, letting future calls go to voicemail.

Everyone went to bed early that night, not yet ready to speak about what had happened, what was going to happen...the man they had all lost. Soon. Not yet.

Tim had only lived in this house for a little while before going to college, but he still had a room. Sarah slept in her old room. Tim went into his. It felt strange. He came home to stay very rarely. Work being as it was, he often didn't have time for lengthy visits home. The bed was strange. The house itself felt strange. ...and despite getting absolutely no sleep the night before, Tim couldn't sleep. He didn't feel tired. He was still too numb to feel much of anything beyond shock.

He'd been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling for a couple of hours when a soft knock awoke him to something outside of himself.

"Tim?"

"Hey, Mom."

"I didn't think you'd be asleep yet."

"You're right. I'm not."

Naomi stepped inside but didn't turn on the light. "Can we talk, Tim?"

"Sure."

Tim didn't sit up at that moment. He just lay there.

"The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow morning. They'll let us know the results and then release his body to the mortuary."

"That sounds good."

"Tim, please sit up."

"Okay." Tim sat on the bed and played with the ties on the quilt. There was moonlight shining through the window, illuminating the two of them in cold light.

"We didn't get to give you your birthday present, either."

"It's all right," Tim said. "Seems kind of inappropriate right now, really. I'm just glad...that I got to talk to Dad one last time."

Naomi smiled sadly and reached out to brush back his hair. "I'm glad you did, too."

Tim laughed. "You know...when I told Sarah, she said it wasn't fair that _I_ got to talk to him right before he died. It wasn't fair that she didn't get to as well." Tim didn't notice when Naomi started to speak. He kept going. "Maybe she's right. Maybe it wasn't fair...wasn't right that he was talking to me when..."

"Someone had to be there, Tim. There's always someone who was there last. I was there when he died. You talked to him right before. There's only so many moments...and sometimes..." A tear slipped down her cheek. "...sometimes the moments run out. It's _not_ fair, but that's the way life is."

Tim nodded and continued to fiddle with the ties. The numbness began to lessen.

"You know...Dad's the only one who remembered it was my birthday yesterday. We were just finishing up a case at work and no one remembered. I guess Sarah was busy. I can't tell you how h-happy I was that...that someone bothered to remember...and look how it ended."

"I know. Well, I remembered, too, but it was Sam who wanted to call."

"You know...something he said while we were talking...do you think he knew?"

"That he was going to die? ...and maybe let it happen?" Naomi asked in surprise and then she shook her head firmly, putting her hands on either shoulder and shaking Tim a little. "No, Tim. No. He wouldn't have done that to us again. There is no way on earth that your father would _ever_ willingly put us through that kind of torment. Don't even _think_ of that. Sam wanted to live for as long as he could. He would never try to cut it short...or _let_ it be cut short if he could prevent it. ...and that's because of you, Tim. You made him see what he stood to lose...and he didn't want to lose it."

"It's funny, you know," Tim said, his voice starting to shake. "He...he died on the anniversary of him getting paralyzed. My...sixteenth birthday...sixteen years ago. Funny, isn't it?"

"I hadn't even thought of that, Tim."

"Those..." He stopped, feeling a tightness in his throat. "...those stupid wipers." Then, the floodgates opened and he finally began to cry, covering his eyes with his hand.

"Oh, Tim," Naomi said quietly and pulled him into a hug as he cried all the tears he'd been unable to express before.

"If only...if only I hadn't looked away. He'd be fine. He'd be alive. If only I hadn't..."

"No, you _know_ it's not your fault."

Tim shook his head. "It doesn't matter. My fault or not...it's Dad's paralysis that killed him. All his health problems, the blood clots, the digestive problems. That's why... if he hadn't been paralyzed...he wouldn't have had the problem in the first place."

Naomi began rocking Tim back and forth. "Shh, it's okay. Tim...you _know_ your father doesn't blame you. He never did. You _know_ that it's not your fault." A sad laugh. "We even have a court decision _saying_ it wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it. What happened to Sam was...was an accident then...and a sad tragedy now."

"Do you know how many times I've wished I looked up...or we didn't drive so far...or...what if Sarah went with me first? Would I have gone the same route, taken as long? If we'd been in an accident still, would she have been okay? Or would she have died? ...and...and sometimes..." Tim shook his head again and cried more.

Naomi held him more tightly.

"It's not fair, Mom. It's just not fair. Dad shouldn't have died. He didn't deserve to die!"

"I know."

Still shaking, Tim tried to pull back. "I'm s-sorry. I'm making this all about me. I shouldn't be..."

Naomi held on to him and there were tears in her own voice. "Shouldn't be what, Tim? Don't you think you have the same right to grieve as the rest of us do?"

Tim didn't, couldn't answer.

"You _know_ it's not your fault but you take the blame on yourself anyway. You have to _stop_ that, Tim. Your father is dead and that hurts. It hurts me... Sarah. It hurts you...but you can't live the rest of your life feeling like it's your fault that he died. You didn't kill him. You didn't hurt him. You saved him...more than once if you could just remember the first time."

"I'm sorry," Tim said again.

"I'm not saying that you can't grieve. You have to grieve. Don't you understand what funerals are for, what grieving is for?" Naomi asked. "It's not for the one who died. Not really. All of this...it's for the ones who are left behind. The one who died is gone...in another place. He doesn't feel that pain. We're left behind, Tim. You. Me. Sarah. We're the ones who are left behind. You're one of us...and dang it, Tim, you _deserve_ to grieve just as much as the rest of us do. So, don't you hold back because you think that you're not worthy or because you're worried that you don't deserve it."

"I miss him, Mom. I miss him already."

"I do, too. Oh, Tim... I do, too," Naomi said as she continued to rock Tim back and forth.

A few minutes later, the door opened again, and Sarah walked in. She didn't say anything but walked over and joined them on the bed. Soon, they were crying together, mourning the loss of their husband and father. It didn't take too long for Tim to calm down again, and he sat up, wiping at his eyes, trying to smile.

"We're a bunch of babies, we are," he said and tried to laugh.

"You don't need to lighten the mood, Tim," Naomi said. "It's not going away, not for awhile. Better just to let the chips fall as they will." She secured a tight around Sarah's shoulders. "Now, he wanted you to do the eulogy, Tim."

"What? Who did?"

"Your father."

"How? I don't understand."

Naomi took a deep breath. "I was going to do this tomorrow, but seeing as you're both awake and not likely to go to sleep for some time... You might as well know that Sam planned his funeral."

"When?"

"Do you remember last year when he started having those cramps in his stomach?"

"Yeah. He went to the doctor. He said he had to change his diet."

"Yes...well, he decided to have another complete checkup while he was there...and decided not to tell either of you about that part."

"Why not?" Sarah asked.

"Because of what they found."

"What?"

"They found three clots in his legs. They managed to stop them from developing before they were dangerous...but that was with him taking heparin every day." Naomi wiped a few tears away herself. "One morning, he sat me down and said that he was going to plan his funeral so that when he died it wasn't all disorganized. He didn't trust us to do it right."

"I'll bet he quoted something to you," Sarah said, managing a genuine smile.

"Of course, he did. He had to because I was horrified that he would go that far."

"What did he say?"

"I don't remember. You know I don't have his memory for those things. I think it was by Alexander Pope."

"'Order is Heaven's first law,'" Tim whispered.

"Yes. That was it," Naomi said, smiling. She reached out and took Tim's hand. "You got his brains on that score. Quotations for Tim...poetry for Sarah."

"He corrupted us both," Sarah said and laughed...and cried a little.

"Well, I hope you're ready to recite some poetry, Sarah. You're on the program. He wanted Tim to give the eulogy and Sarah to recite a poem."

"Which one?"

"Two, actually."

"Which ones?"

"He wanted me to make you guess."

"Dad's so mean...can you give me a hint?" she begged.

"Dying and flying."

"Dying and flying?"

"Those are the words he gave as clues. He made you memorize both of them; so they're already in your head...but if you haven't figured them out by tomorrow, I'll tell you."

"Okay."

"He picked out the location, the time of day, the minister. We've had our plot in the cemetery for a while, as you know. I think he wanted to make it as easy as possible...knowing that it would be hard, no matter when it happened."

Silence...just for a few seconds.

"One of the poems is 'Crossing the Bar' isn't it?"

"Yes, Sarah. That's one of them. Do you still remember it?"

"Yeah."

"Good girl."

"I'm...going to go back to bed."

"Good night, Sarah."

"'Night, Mom. Good night, Tim." She stood to go and then leaned over and hugged Tim tightly. "It's not your fault, Tim. Never was."

"Thanks, Sarah."

Sarah walked to the door and then turned back. "Mom?"

"Yes?"

"It's dumb...but...could you come and tuck me in? Just this once?"

"Of course." Naomi got up and followed Sarah.

Tim still wasn't tired. Being told that he was going to have to speak at the funeral had startled him...especially in light of what Sam had said to him on his birthday.

"'Speech is the mirror of the soul; as a man speaks, so is he.'"

He stood up and went out into the hall. He heard Sarah and Naomi talking in low voices. Sarah was the one who was good with words. She'd always performed well for an audience. Why didn't Sam ask _her_ to do it? Tim knew that he wasn't much of a speaker. He was too easily flustered by people, by situations...by himself. It was too easy for him to stumble and then completely lose his place. He walked quietly down the stairs to the study/office. This was Sam's room. He spent a lot of time in there...or he had. He wouldn't anymore. Tim swallowed the tears that threatened to fall and walked over to the wheelchair which was parked in one corner. He sat down and rubbed the worn rims on the rear wheels. His dad had always preferred the sports wheelchairs to conventional chairs. They were more expensive, but so much easier for him to manage that they had always decided it was worth the extra cost. This one had been his Porsche. They had really splurged on it. He had often wished that he didn't have to see his dad in a wheelchair...

_...but if I had to choose between that and never seeing him again, I would choose the wheelchair. In a heartbeat._

Tim rubbed the rims again, rocking the chair back and forth.

"Don't get too comfortable in there. I'm not planning on anyone needing to use that anymore."

Tim looked up, startled.

"Tim, I thought you'd be in bed. You look so tired."

"I don't feel tired. Not yet."

"Did you sleep last night?"

"No."

"Not at all?"

"No."

Naomi walked over and crouched down in front of him. "Tim..."

"I can't...I just can't believe that he's gone. I heard you scream...and...and I was just talking to him." Tim's tears weren't like the first bout, but they slipped down his cheeks once more. "I tried to...just do what I could. I had to be strong for Sarah so that she could fall apart if she needed to. I had to make...sure that you weren't alone out here. I had to...make sure I didn't look like a wuss in front of my friends. I had to..."

"Tim," Naomi said, stopping him. "You don't have to do any of that. I appreciate you taking control when you did because, goodness knows, I wasn't thinking clearly last night. You don't have to hide what you're feeling. That doesn't help anyone, least of all you."

"Mom?" Tim asked.

"What, Tim?"

"If you had...the choice...if you could have Dad back and trade me...would you?"

"Tim, you can't ask me that kind of a question."

"You could have Dad back, walking...alive...if I wasn't..."

Naomi stood. "Tim, I can't make a choice like that. Thankfully, I don't have to. I have you now. I had Sam for 37 wonderful years. I could ask for more...but I would never trade one of you for the other. I don't love you less. Please, Tim. Stop hurting yourself, stop berating yourself for something that happened so long ago."

Tim stood up and looked around the room.

"I can't...I can't talk about Dad, not in front of everyone. I can't, Mom. I don't know what he was thinking asking me." Tears coursed down his cheeks. "The only thing I can think right now...is that I wish I could...bring him b-back. I don't have any other words. I can't think of anything to say, Mom. Dad's gone, and he's never coming back. Never."

Naomi stood as well. She was only an inch shorter than he was. When she hugged him, it didn't require much effort.

"Tim, am I going to lose you, too? ...because I don't think I can bear that. I could barely stand losing your father. Don't make me lose my son."

Tim just cried.

"You want to change the past, I know. ...but you can't, Tim. You can't bring your father back by dying and you can't change what happened. Your father wanted only one thing from you. He wanted you to be happy. Please, Tim, do that for him. Please."

"Mom...I..."

"And give his eulogy. Tim, he loved you so much. He was always so proud of you. I know you loved him, too. Share that. It doesn't have to be eloquent. It just has to be sincere, from your heart. That's all it has to be. ...and Tim, you speak from your heart. That's who you are."

"I can't get those moments out of my head. I felt so helpless, just standing there, listening to him die over the phone...and then, when I heard you scream...I knew he was going to die. I just knew...and I couldn't move...because there was nothing I could do. I can't stop hearing it... It was so fast."

"I'm so sorry, Tim. I didn't think anything could be worse than being there and being helpless. I was wrong. I'm sorry. I dropped the ball last night. I didn't think of what you were going through. I'm sorry for that. No one paid attention to what happened to you, and they should have. I should have."

"It's not your fault, Mom. There was nothing you could do."

"It's not about blame. It's about what happened, and you were hurt by it as much...or maybe more than I was. I'm sorry, Tim." She hugged him one more time and then pulled back. "You need to go to bed."

"I'm really not tired."

"No, you are. You're just not letting yourself feel it. Come on. I'll tuck you in, too."

Tim managed a shaky smile. "I'm a little old to be tucked in, Mom."

"But I'm not too old to do the tucking. Come on."

She led him back up to his room and sat him down on his bed. Tim felt a little silly as she tucked the blankets around him, but he did finally feel tired when she kissed his head and brushed a strand of hair back into place.

"Tim, there was one thing Sam said to me just before he died. It was something he wanted me to tell you. I had to look it up so I could remember it, but here it is."

"What?"

"'A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.' Winston Churchill. I don't know how he even got the breath to say it...but he did. Just remember it."

"Okay."

"Good night, Tim."

"Good night, Mom."

Naomi left the room, and Tim stayed where he was. That quotation felt so familiar. Of course, it was Churchill; so he'd probably heard his dad quote it before...but there was something about it, some reason it was important.

Even with all that weighing on him, the need for sleep finally made itself heard and Tim slept.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Naomi walked into the kitchen early in the morning and felt the pain associated with the fact that Sam would never come in again and bug her while she was making breakfast. He'd never come rolling in and chase her out, declaring that it was his turn to cook and that she should get back into bed. Her heart ached every time she remembered that he was gone, but in some ways, it was a good ache. As she had told Tim, she and Sam had been blessed with over 35 years of married life. She had hoped to have that many more, but she was glad for what they'd had.

Instead of cooking, she sat down on one of the stools (pausing briefly to turn the phone back on) and basked in the memories...not noticing the passing of time.

It was an hour later. She felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Mom?"

Naomi turned around and smiled. "Good morning, Sarah. How do you feel about pancakes for breakfast?"

"Sure." She looked down. "I was hoping it would have been a bad dream and that I'd wake up and he'd be here."

"Me, too. ...but it's not. So..." She gestured. "You want to help?"

"Okay. Where's Tim?" she asked as she got out the flour.

Naomi got out a big bowl. "Still sleeping."

"Still? He's always awake before me."

"He had a late night. Lots to think about."

They began mixing the ingredients in silence.

"I missed his birthday," Sarah said softly. "I totally forgot. I mean...I didn't even think to get him a crappy birthday card like I did last year."

"Don't worry about that right now, Sarah. Tim won't appreciate the reminder at the moment. We'll decide what to do about it later."

"Okay. Should I go wake him up?"

"Let's wait until breakfast is done. If he's sleeping now, that a good thing. He didn't get any sleep the night before."

"None at all?"

"That's what he told me."

"Oh." Sarah got out the griddle and turned it on. "Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think Tim can do it?"

"Do what?"

"Dad's eulogy. He doesn't want to do it. You could tell, I know. He doesn't want that, Mom."

"I know, but he needs to do it."

"You think it will help?"

"Yes. Telling the truth can't hurt, and Tim will have to. Besides, it's what Sam wanted. That's got to count for something."

"I guess." Sarah stared at the griddle. "Can we have bacon?"

"Sure, hon. There's some in the fridge."

They were almost done making breakfast when the phone rang. Naomi answered it.

"Hello? Yes, this Mrs. McGee." She listened for a long time and felt the tears starting in her eyes. "Yes...I understand. Okay. Yes. That sounds fine. Thank you for letting me know. No, that's not necessary. All right. Good-bye." She hung up the phone and sighed.

"Who was it, Mom?"

"The...medical examiner. He just wanted to let me know that Dr. Chan's diagnosis had been correct. It was a pulmonary embolism. A big one, right in his heart. The mortuary is going to pick him up in about an hour."

Sarah nodded vigorously at the griddle. "Great."

Naomi gave a half smile. "I'll go get your brother."

"Get me for what?" Tim asked. "I heard the phone ring. Sorry, I slept so long."

"No problem. Breakfast is ready."

"Wow. Pancakes? What's the occasion?" he asked...and then his mouth twisted for just a moment. "H-Here, I'll get the plates."

"I just felt like cooking, Tim. It passes the time," Naomi said and handed him the plates...and the glasses...and the utensils. "You can take it all."

"Can do." Tim set the table quickly while Sarah and Naomi brought in the breakfast.

The empty space at the head of the table was as painful as everything else. Their first real meal without Sam. Last night they had eaten in the kitchen.

"So...who was on the phone?"

"The M.E."

Tim swallowed hard. "Anything... unexpected?"

"No. It's what Dr. Chan thought."

"Okay."

"We need to go over to the funeral home this afternoon. You up for it, Tim?"

"Yeah."

"Sarah?"

"Of course."

"Good. I didn't want to do it alone."

Tim set down his fork, got up and hugged her. "You're never alone, Mom. McGees stick together."

Sarah jumped up and walked around the table to join in the hug. "That's right," she whispered fiercely. "Always."

There were probably a lot of things Naomi could have said, but she couldn't think of a single good thing to say. Instead, she just hugged her children and thanked her many blessings that she had such a family. Her brothers and sisters and father would be coming as would Sam's brother and sister...but right now, Tim and Sarah were all she needed. They gave her the support required to get through all the basics.

They finished eating breakfast and then cleaned up together. Tim was distracted by his own thoughts and stopped contributing anything to the conversation, stilted though it was.

"Tim?" Naomi asked. "Anything wrong?"

At first, she thought he hadn't heard her. It was a distinct possibility seeing as when he got really focused on an idea he tuned the rest of the world out. Then, he carefully set the towel he'd been using down on the counter and looked at her.

"I have to go for a bit. I'll be back in time to go to the funeral home."

"Where do you have to go?"

There was that smile...so reminiscent of Sam...it wasn't a revealing smile. It held something back, whether out of mischief or out of pain.

"Just...out."

"You'll be back?" Naomi asked, knowing he would hear the unspoken question.

"I promise, Mom. I'll be back."

"Okay. Be safe."

"I will." He started to leave the room when Sarah came back in.

"Tim?"

"I'm just going for a drive, Sarah. I'll be back in an hour or so."

Sarah, for all her usual obtuse nature when it came to her doting brother, had picked up on the undercurrent.

"Can...I come with you?"

Tim walked over to her and hugged her briefly. "Not this time. Maybe later."

"...but you're coming back?"

"Yes."

"You promise?"

Tim grabbed her shoulders. "Sarah, I swear that I'm coming back. This is just something I need to do by myself. Okay?"

"Okay."

He smiled once more, ran upstairs to his room and then came back down and left the house.

"Where's he going, Mom?"

"I don't know, Sarah, but he'll be back."

Sarah bit her lip and stared after him. "Are you sure? He seemed...not himself."

"He promised. Tim will be back. He won't lie to us. Not about that. ...now, are you ready to deal with our well-meaning neighbors?"

Sarah looked worriedly at the door but then looked back. "Can I shower first?"

"Go ahead. They'll be coming, and your aunts and uncles will be descending...probably tomorrow."

"Are they going to stay _here_?"

"No...unless my dad does. It's getting hard for him to get around, you know. The arthritis is bad...getting worse all the time. The ramps are good for him. Everyone else will be in hotels."

"Good. What will we say to everyone?"

"We don't have to say much, Sarah. Thank them for their concern. They don't expect any more than that."

"Okay." She looked at the door one more time.

"Don't worry, Sarah. Tim will be back."

"Good. I need him here," she said softly and then ran up the stairs to the bathroom.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim drove down the highway and stopped at a particular spot. It wasn't significant for anyone...except for him...now. Maybe even before, Sam had stopped recognizing its significance...but for Tim, this place loomed large in his mind, as it had ever since his fateful sixteenth birthday. He pulled the car off the road onto the shoulder and then got out. The ravine had healed from the damage the Camaro had caused.

_You'd never know there had been an accident here._

...but there had been. And the accident had destroyed more than trees and a car. Tim wondered if he'd ever be able to forget, ever be able to let go of it completely. He had made a lot of progress in losing the guilt...but now, with Sam dead. Tim walked over to the ravine and made his way down to the bottom.

_The car ended up here, they said...on its side. Dad was on bottom. The impact from the bus and then the rolling snapped his spine._

Tim wasn't sure why he needed to come here...but he'd dreamed last night about the accident, not clearly...mostly as he had ever since it had happened: a haze of smoke, blood and pain. ...except that he had heard his dad speaking last night, which he never had before.

"_Timothy McGee, you will never be able to do _anything_ if you don't think you can! What did Winston Churchill say?"_

Tim almost laughed. If that _was_ a real memory, it was pretty typical. It figured that even in the midst of a car accident, his dad would be able to think of a quote from his hero.

"What did you say to me, Dad? I know you told me about what happened before...but...it's just never been a part of _my_ memory." Tim looked around. There was no answer. It was a lot colder in Ohio than it had been in DC. He shivered a little but instead of leaving, simply pulled his coat more tightly around himself and sat down in the bottom of the ravine.

"_I won't get out of the car unless you can come with me."_

The words, his own words, floated up from the miasma of his mind. Flashes of trying to move the steering wheel, of fumbling around, trying to get his father freed from his seat...they filled his mind as he stared blindly at the spot where the Camaro had come to rest so many years ago.

"_You did very well, Tim. Remember that."_

"Only I didn't...not until just this moment, Dad. I didn't remember." Tim shivered again and tried to figure out why he had thought coming here was important.

"_I would give up even the freedom I have right now if I could just get my son to look at me without guilt in his eyes."_

Tim sighed and felt the tears forming. "I know it's not my fault, Dad. I know that...but how do I...live with knowing the results of what happened?"

Then, Tim remembered something else. It was from one of their many quote wars. This one had been a bit more serious than most. In fact, it had been the first one they'd had after Sam's aborted suicide attempt. The quotes usually had a theme to them. They started because of a topic of discussion...or argument. Tim remembered it so clearly. He had come home for the first time since moving to go to MIT...and he had avoided his father as much as he could. He felt guilty. ...but Sam had cornered him and started the quote war. They had gone back and forth until Sam had won...not because Tim hadn't been able to think of another quote in return...but because Tim hadn't been able to speak.

"_Are you conceding, Tim?"_

"_No. Horace Bushnell. 'Guilt is the very nerve of sorrow.'"_

"_Bushnell was somewhat wrong. It's not just sorrow. 'Guilt is anger directed at ourselves.' Peter McWilliams." Sam skewered Tim with that stare that said he had finally got around to what he wanted to say. "Are you conceding?"_

_Tim sat down on a chair and said nothing._

"_I'll leave you with one more, Tim. John Webster. 'How tedious is a guilty conscience.' And I may not be using it in the same way he meant it, but Tim, it is tedious...because you have nothing to be guilty about."_

"Maybe we should have talked about it more, Dad...but we never can. ...and it's not fair. It's not fair that you're gone...and it's not fair that I have to live with that. How can I do this? How can I talk about you in front of everyone who will be there? Why did you ask me? Why, Dad?"

"'_A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.'"_

"What kind of opportunity is this?" he asked, wiping at his eyes, trying to stop the tears that kept forming. "It's not an opportunity." Then, he laughed. "...but that's the point of the quote, isn't it? It doesn't matter _what_ it is. Everything can be treated like an opportunity. So...what's the opportunity here, Dad?" Tim started to cry. "Why can't you be here to tell me? Why did you have to leave? I wasn't ready."

He cried there in the ravine until the chill in the air drove him back to his car.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Work had to continue and it did. The MCRT did not shirk their duties in any way...but it would be a lie to say that they weren't occasionally wondering how Tim was doing, how all the McGees were coping with their loss...and whether or not they should call. They hoped that Tim would call and tell them it was okay to invade, but they weren't sure he would. Even Abby was holding off out of respect for Tim's general sense of privacy...but it was hard.

They were all doing their work when Gibbs' phone rang. Gibbs suppressed a smile at the instant pricking up of Tony and Ziva.

"Gibbs."

"_Hey...Boss, it's McGee."_

"What is it, McGee?"

"_I just need to let you know that I'll be gone until Tuesday. Sarah decided that she wanted to come back for classes and finish out the semester...so I'll be back as well for work on Tuesday."_

"That's fine. When is the funeral?"

"_Saturday, at eleven...and...Boss?"_

"Yeah?"

"_I know it's a long way to come for such a small thing but..."_

"You want us there?"

"_Yeah. It's probably a pain for you. It's a long drive, but...it...it would mean a lot to me if any of you guys could make it."_

Gibbs didn't express his surprise at Tim's request, at his explanation. He had assumed that Tim would accept that they _wanted_ to be there and might even appreciate it to some degree, but not that he wanted them there enough to ask them to come.

"_I'm giving the eulogy, Boss. I'm...not looking forward to it...but it would help if you guys were there."_

"It would?"

"_Yeah. It would. You guys...never knew my dad before...before the accident and..."_ Tim took a deep breath. _"...and I won't be imagining that you're blaming me for what happened."_

"What _did_ happen?"

"_He had a pulmonary embolism. A blood clot formed in his leg and traveled up to his heart. Killed him really fast. He had a lot of those...and he can't feel them because he can't feel his legs. This one...too big...too fast. ...people usually feel the DVTs before they start to move."_

Tim didn't need to say any more than that. Gibbs got it. The clots were common because of Sam's paralysis _and_ because of his paralysis he couldn't feel them when they formed.

"_We just got back from...the funeral home. Getting everything organized and all that."_

"How are you doing?"

"_Okay. ...as okay as I can be, I guess."_

"We'll be there, McGee."

"_You will?"_ Tim sounded surprised.

"Of course. I can't vouch for everyone, but I'll be there and you can bet most the others will, too."

"_Thanks. Thanks, Boss. That really...really means a lot to me."_

"And McGee?"

"_Yeah, Boss?"_

Gibbs hesitated and then just decided to say it and let the chips fall where they may. "Happy birthday."

There was a long pause and when Tim spoke again, his voice was thick. _"Thanks, Boss."_ There was a short sad laugh._ "You know what? Dad's the only who remembered."_

"See you on Saturday, McGee."

"_Yeah. Bye."_

Tim hung up and Gibbs didn't linger, although he himself felt bad that he had only remembered Tim's birthday the day after when Tim came by to tell them he was leaving for Ohio.

"Boss?"

"Yeah, the funeral is on Saturday morning."

"It was McGee's birthday?" Tony asked.

"Yeah."

Ziva's eyes opened wide. "His father died..."

"...on his birthday. Oh...crap, Boss. Man, that sucks."

"I did not remember it. Did you?"

"No. Heck, I barely remembered my own name by the end of the day."

"Did _anyone_ remember?"

"His dad did," Gibbs said softly.

"They were talking when he died."

"Is that better or worse?" Tony asked.

"I do not think there is any way to decide such a thing."

The elevator dinged revealing Abby. She looked around. "Tim called?"

"How did you do that, Abbs?" Tony asked.

"I've been training. Tim called?"

"Yeah. Funeral's on Saturday."

"Are we carpooling?" Abby asked, looking around at them.

"Might as well...although if Ducky and Jimmy come, we won't all fit in anyone's car."

"Will they?"

"Ducky said he'd ask Jimmy," Gibbs said, "but he's coming."

"We could rent a van," Abby said, hopefully.

"Why can we not just drive?"

"It's bad for the environment!"

"You just don't want to go by yourself," Tony said.

Abby looked around the bullpen. "Okay, you're right. I don't. I mean...I'm actually a little scared to see how Tim's taking this. He's...so sensitive about his dad and he loves him so much. Now, he's dead. ...and I feel bad. ...did you realize that I forgot Tim's birthday? The only thing he had to celebrate it was his dad dying! That's horrible! ...and there's nothing I can do about it right now because celebrating a birthday when you're getting ready for a funeral is just...wrong. And Tim wouldn't want to anyway, and you _know_ that he was disappointed I didn't say anything and..."

"Abby," Gibbs said, "we all forgot it."

"Oh, that's even worse." Abby plopped down onto Tim's chair. "Man, I don't think Tim could have had a worse week."

"I'm game to carpool," Tony said finally. "I'll even chip in for a rental."

"Are you certain that McGee wants us to come?"

"Yeah. He said he did."

"He did?" Tony asked in surprise. "Even me?"

Ziva laughed. "He must be desperate."

"He's giving the eulogy. He's scared to do it."

Everyone sobered.

"Why? It's his dad."

"Who died from complications due to paralysis which occurred during an accident when Tim was driving."

"Oh. Right."

"And we'll help?"

"Yes...apparently."

"Then, we _have_ to go," Abby said.

"I will join in a carpool," Ziva said.

"Gibbs?" Abby asked. "Please, Gibbs? Pretty please?"

Gibbs just nodded.

"And Ducky will, too. He can't drive his old car all the way to Ohio. It would take hours. We'll just have to leave on Friday after work, and we'll get there in plenty of time!"

"McGee's old stomping grounds? Ought to be interesting," Tony said with his usual swagger, but then he stopped. "I wish we were invading for a better reason."

"Yeah."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Sarah hated the feeling of the house. It felt empty. It felt like...like a tomb. Naomi was talking with one of the many well-wishers, but Sarah hadn't been able to tolerate sitting with people she didn't know and accepting their expressions of sorrow. A part of her felt they didn't have the right to mourn with them. How could they possibly feel even a particle of the grief the family felt? And so she withdrew...but the house still felt empty and cavernous. She hid in her room for a while, but that wasn't helping. She knew what she wanted. She wanted her big brother. ...but Tim had sequestered himself in the study, writing Dad's eulogy, and she didn't want to interrupt him because she was so afraid that he was going to screw up...big time. It wasn't that he _couldn't_ do it. It was that he'd psyche himself out like he did so many times. ...and she didn't want that to happen, not to Tim and not to their dad.

Still...she also wanted to be selfish and she wanted Tim to tell her everything would be okay. It always seemed to be true when he said it.

Decision made, she snuck down the stairs, past the living room entrance and into the study. Tim was sitting at the desk...but he wasn't writing. His head was down, pillowed on his arms, and he was asleep. The floor was littered with crumpled pieces of paper...and Sarah couldn't bring herself to wake him up. Instead, she walked over to the bookshelf, took a book at random (Emily Dickinson's complete poetry), and sad down in one of the armchairs. She flipped through the book until she found the poems on death (not hard to do...Emily Dickinson had written quite a lot on the subject).

She started reading, skimming mostly...and then paused on one and read it in a whispered voice.

"_There's something quieter than sleep  
__Within this inner room!  
__It wears a sprig upon its breast,  
__And will not tell its name._

_Some touch it and some kiss it,  
__Some chafe its idle hand;  
__It has a simple gravity  
__I do not understand!_

_While simple-hearted neighbors  
__Chat of the 'early dead',  
__We, prone to periphrasis,  
__Remark that birds have fled!"_

She sniffed and wiped at the tears on her cheeks.

"Sarah?"

She looked up, a bit startled, and saw Tim rubbing at his eyes.

"When did you come in?"

"A few minutes ago. I just...wanted to read some poetry." She tried to smile. "I miss him, Tim."

"Me, too." Tim got up walked over, sitting on the ottoman. Sarah leaned forward and hugged him tightly. "...but it will be all right. We'll get through it."

Sarah smiled. She had known Tim would say it. He always did. ...but she noticed something she hadn't before. Tim was shaking...not violently, but he _was_ trembling as he comforted her.

"Tim? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Sarah. I'm all right."

Usually, Sarah knew that she'd just accept that and move on, but she didn't want to this time. It wasn't right this time. Probably it hadn't been right the other times either, but this time it really wasn't right.

"No, you're not. You're shaking, Tim. I know it's not me."

"It's nothing." He pulled back and started to stand.

"It's not nothing, Tim! I know it's not nothing! Is it the eulogy?"

"It is...and it isn't." Tim sighed and stood up. He walked over to Sam's empty wheelchair. "I don't know what to say. I don't know what to talk about. I don't know what _I_ can possibly say that will make everything better...that will make it okay that Dad's dead. Nothing can do that...and I don't know what to do. I've tried to figure it out...ever since we got back from the funeral home. I've tried and tried and tried..." Tim rubbed his temples and his shoulders slumped. "I just don't know, Sarah. I can't say anything...nothing worth saying."

Without really thinking, Sarah rushed over and hugged Tim tightly. "No, Tim. You're wrong. You have lots worth saying! You and Dad were so close...I was jealous of how close you two were. You know him. You have lots to say. No one could do this except you."

To her surprise, Tim laughed, although he hugged her bag. "Sarah, you don't have to try to be nice about it."

"I'm not just being nice. Tim, it's true. Dad knew it. Mom knows. I do, too. You _have_ to be the one to do the eulogy...and...and you'll do a great job. You just have to stop worrying about being perfect and just do what's right."

"Aren't you doing my job, Sarah?"

"We can switch sometimes."

Tim rested his cheek on her head. "Thanks. ...but I don't know what to say."

"You'll figure it out, Tim. I know you will."

There was a soft knock and Naomi opened the door.

"Tim? Sarah?"

"Yeah?"

"Ed just got here. Could you come out and talk for a while?"

"Sure, Mom," Tim said.

"I don't want to," Sarah said softly.

"We need to, Sarah. Come on."

"All right."

Together, they went out and spent the rest of the evening talking with Sam's friends and colleagues.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Suddenly, it was Friday night. Tim wondered where the time had gone...especially when it seemed so interminable. He still had nothing written and the funeral was in the morning. Words that seemed all right when he thought of them were crap when he wrote them down. He felt as though he'd used up an entire ream of paper trying to figure out something to write that would adequately encapsulate his father. Uncle Jim was going to give the life sketch...so he didn't need to deal with every period of his life. ...but the eulogy. It came from the Greek meaning good word. Good words about Sam were thick on the ground...but which ones were the _right_ good words?

_This is going to be horrible._

"Tim?"

Tim looked up and then around at the crumpled pieces of paper littering the floor and the desk.

"I think I should have brought my shredder with me." He smiled.

Naomi smiled in reply. "You're worrying about it too much, Tim."

"Easy for you to say."

"I know. It's time to go."

"Yeah. I've never understood this tradition, Mom. Let's all get together and stare at a dead body."

"That's not what it's for and you know it."

"I'm sorry."

Naomi walked over and pulled Tim to his feet. "Come on, Tim. It's not going to go away...no matter how much we might want it to."

"Yeah."

Naomi put her arm around Tim's waist and led him out of the study.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Oh, Tim, I just can't get over how much you look like your father."

Tim tried to smile. He couldn't even remember who it was he was talking to at the moment. An old friend of the family, probably. That's what they all seemed to be anyway.

"Last time I saw you, you were knee high."

Yep, a family friend.

"You shot up like the proverbial weed."

"Judy," Naomi said, walking over to rescue Tim, "I didn't see you come in. Marilyn's been wanting to talk to you."

"Marilyn? Oh, what a dear." Naomi jerked her head toward the door as she led the woman away.

Tim turned and felt his heart lift just a little and he walked quickly to the group at the door.

"Hi, guys. Thanks for coming," he said, knowing it sounded inane.

Abby instantly started hugging him. "Oh, Tim. I'm so sorry about this. It's just terrible and I hope you're doing okay." The speech, which Tim had assumed was just revving up, stopped suddenly and Abby just hugged him instead.

"Thanks, Abby," Tim said and carefully extricated himself from her arms. He looked at the others with the closest to a smile he'd felt in days.

"We weren't certain we would make it, Timothy, but Director Vance allowed us to leave early," Ducky said, giving Tim a quick hug.

"And then, of course, we let Gibbs drive," Tony added. "We would have let Ziva, but we were a little worried about actually getting here."

"I am a very good driver," Ziva said and then hugged Tim and whispered in his ear. He didn't understand the words. They must have been Hebrew. When she let him go, he wanted to ask what she had said, but couldn't find the words to ask. Just the expression in the way she had spoken them had been enough to bring him almost to tears...not that it took much right now.

Tony only shook his hand, but he had such a tight grip Tim felt he might lose his fingers. Gibbs patted him on the back.

Ziva looked around at the other people, Naomi with a small knot of people, Sarah hugging one of her friends and then she looked at Tim again.

"In Israel, it is customary to mourn in silence unless the mourners wish to speak. I take it this is not how mourning works here?"

Tim shook his head. "No, but...I kind of wish it did. I don't know half these people. They're here to see my dad...in his coffin." He felt his lip start to shake a little and bit it. "I've never understood this custom. I didn't get it when my grandpa died either. This is more for them than it is for us."

"Does it bother you so much, McGee?"

Tim sighed. "Not really. I don't think anything would seem right to me right now." He gestured for them to come further into the room. "I'm glad you guys are here, though."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

They stayed for the rest of the time, mostly talking to Tim but occasionally rescuing Sarah from well-meaning visitors and speaking to Naomi. It was Abby who first noticed the photo tribute set up for Sam. There were photos of him as a child, in the Navy...but the bulk of them showed Sam as they had met him: in a wheelchair...a professor and father. One series of photos, in particular, caught Abby's attention and she waved Tim over.

"What?"

"What's this picture, Tim?" she asked eagerly.

Gibbs saw Tim flush a little and was happy to see something on his face besides shock and grief.

"Oh, that's nothing really. I didn't know Mom had decided to use that one. I would have vetoed it."

"What is it, Probie?" Tony asked. "You guys look like you two are having a Western shootout."

Indeed, the first photo was of Sam in his wheelchair with his back to Tim who was standing straight up with his fingers miming holding a gun. He was about twenty years old, still gawky but with that round baby face, his head turned toward the camera with a fake-intense expression. The next photo was of them separated by about five feet, Tim still faking his gun and Sam with his own intense expression. The third photo was them, about ten feet apart, now facing each other, Tim's finger gun aiming at his dad and Sam with his own hand out shooting a fake gun.

Tim laughed and ran a hand through his hair. "It was...kind of."

"What, Tim?"

"Dad and I...we had these...quote wars."

"Quote wars?" Tony asked, grinning.

"Yeah. We would be talking and then one of us, usually Dad, would suddenly say a quote and the other would have to respond with a quote that either agreed with or contradicted the one first said. We would go back and forth until one conceded." Tim hesitated and then laughed again. "That would be this last photo."

Gibbs had to suppress a chuckle of his own. Tim had his hands over his heart and was melodramatically collapsing to the floor.

"I take it you lost, McGee?" he asked.

"Yeah. I usually did. I can't believe Mom still...no, I take it back. I can believe she has these pictures. I can't believe she's showing them."

"What about this one, Timothy?" Ducky asked, pointing to a photo of Sam wheeling his chair down the middle of the street.

"Oh, that..."

Gibbs watched with interest as Tim talked, almost happily about the memories displayed on the memorial. In fact, after a few moments of encouragement from Ducky, he began offering explanations without urging. He had never told them so much about his father, or even his family, before. That he wasn't forgetting why they were all there was obvious when Tim would occasionally falter as he spoke and give a shaky smile.

Finally, though, they were the only ones still at the funeral home and Gibbs noticed Tim giving side glances toward the open casket at the opposite end of the room. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen Tim anywhere near it the entire time they'd been there. Granted, they had missed the beginning, but Naomi had gone over a few times and Sarah at least twice during the hour he'd been paying attention. Tim...not at all.

When the conversation petered out, Gibbs made eye contact with Tony and Ducky who got the hint and began winding up.

"McGee," Gibbs said as the others began speaking to Sarah and Naomi.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"You have a minute?"

"Sure."

Gibbs gestured and Tim fell in step with him...until he noticed that they were headed toward the casket; then his pace noticeably slowed, although he didn't stop.

"What is it, Boss?"

"Come on, McGee."

"I know what you're doing. There's no point in looking. All that's in there is a body. My dad isn't there. He's gone."

"Then, it won't hurt to look."

Tim kept walking but Gibbs could see his reticence. When they got to the casket, Tim looked...and looked...and then shook his head.

"How's the eulogy going?"

"I've filled up an entire ream of paper with nothing but crap," Tim said, not looking away. "I'm sure he had a reason...but I don't know what it was, and I can't say anything worth saying."

"You were talking about your dad for nearly an hour tonight, McGee."

"That's different. When there's an audience, when it really matters, I can't string two words together."

"That's not true."

"Yeah, it is. I barely made it through my valedictory speech in high school...and that was mostly because I had to for my dad. He's not going to be there tomorrow." Tim didn't look away from the casket, but he wiped a tear. "He won't ever be there. I won't be able to do it. I can't make speeches."

"You have plenty of times."

"No, I haven't, Boss."

Gibbs smiled and put his hand on Tim's shoulder. "Before you were officially on my team, you were in Autopsy with Abby, trying to talk to Watson, keep him from doing anything stupid and tracking the money. Grayson was about to kill his wife. In a split second, you decided to talk to Grayson over the radio or whatever and tell him you were the FBI and that he should give up."

"That wasn't a speech, Boss."

"When Landon was ready to kill Abby, you stood there in that room with everyone listening to you, and talked down a crazy loon by writing your story on the fly."

"That wasn't–" Tim tried to protest.

"And before that, you stood up to me in the elevator to protect your little sister. You apologized but you didn't back down."

"Those weren't speeches, Boss."

"No, they were a lot more important than a simple speech. People's lives were on the line and you stepped up and did your job. You did your job and you did it well. Maybe they weren't long speeches, but you did it. You didn't even stutter and you stuttered all the time back when you first started. When it matters, McGee, you do it right. ...and you will tomorrow, too. You just need to loosen up a little and stop expecting to be some amazing orator. Just talk about your dad like you did tonight. I'm not saying you shouldn't jot down some ideas of what you want to say, but don't think of it as a speech. You're talking to people about someone you love."

"He's my dad," Tim said softly.

"Exactly. That's all that matters."

"Boss..."

"Yeah?"

"If I get stuck should I just tell everyone to 'stick it'?"

Gibbs was a little startled and looked over at Tim find him laughing...and then suddenly crying.

"You think that would help, Boss?"

"Maybe."

"I don't want to say good-bye."

Gibbs squeezed Tim's shoulder. "But you have to, McGee...and since you do, why not say it in the best way possible...by showing everyone else why your dad was such a great guy?"

"I hate that he's gone."

"I know the feeling."

"Does it go away?"

"No...but it does fade...if you let it."

"Tim? Are you ready to go?"

Tim wiped his eyes and finally looked away from the casket. "Yeah, Mom. I'm ready."

"Let's go."

"Okay." He looked at Gibbs for the first time. "Thanks for coming, Boss. See you tomorrow."

"We'll be there."

Tim's mouth quirked in a kind of half smile. "So will I."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Tim stood in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. He knew he didn't look very good at the moment. There were ever-darkening circles under his eyes. He just wasn't sleeping very well. Too much stress about this stupid eulogy. He had a few notes written down on a piece of paper and now, he was terrified about relating the thoughts which had popped into his head while he was sleeping and awakened him at five a.m. He had groaned to himself but given in to the insistent thoughts in his head. Now, they were written out and they were all he had...so that was his eulogy: frantic scribblings at the last minute...what a tribute.

There was an insistent knock. "Tim? Can I have the bathroom now? I have to get ready, too."

"Yeah, Sarah. Sorry. Just a minute." Tim looked at himself again. At least he would be dressed well, even if he didn't look very good and the eulogy sucked. He took a deep breath and let it out before leaving the bathroom.

"Took you long enough," she said acerbically, but then stopped and actually looked at him. "Tim, are you going to be all right?"

"Sure...what's one more embarrassment?"

"It won't be like that, Tim. Honest, it won't. You'll be fine."

"Yeah. The bathroom is all yours."

"Thanks. I didn't want to use the one in Mom and Dad's...in Mom's room."

Tim nodded and moved out of the way. He understood why Sarah wanted to avoid going in there. That bathroom was fully adapted for Sam's use. Naomi used it, too, but it was totally wheelchair accessible. They had spent quite a bit of money on it in order to give Sam complete independence. Going into that bathroom would be a reminder of Sam's absence...a constant reminder for as long as you were in there.

Tim went into his room to grab his suit coat. Then, he hurried downstairs to the study to grab the page of his notes. Naomi had it in her hand.

"Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"This is your eulogy?" Her expression was unreadable.

"Yeah."

"Are you sure this is what you want to say?"

"No. ...but I can't think of anything else, either. You think I shouldn't?"

Naomi shook her head and held out the page. "You do what you feel is right, Tim."

"You sure you trust me, Mom? My judgment isn't always that great."

Naomi curled Tim's fingers around the sheet of paper. "I trust you, Tim. Just like your father did."

"I don't want to cry up there."

"No one will think less of you if you do."

In the strange ways of time, the hours and minutes passed almost instantly but seemed to take forever. It was time to go to the funeral. Sarah didn't come down until it was time to go. She and Naomi were both in black. Tim had a white shirt on under his jacket but was also in black. This was another of those traditions he almost wished didn't exist. Sam wouldn't have cared if they were in black or in pink. In fact, he'd probably prefer the pink just so he could laugh at them.

The thought made Tim smile.

"What, Tim?" Sarah asked.

"I was just thinking that we should have worn pink instead of black."

Naomi looked at him in confusion. "Why?"

"Because Dad would have loved it."

Sarah laughed and hugged Tim around the waist as they walked out the door.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"_...and following the McGee family tradition, Sam joined the Navy after four years in the NROTC..."_

Tim only heard bits and pieces of his Uncle Jim's life sketch. He was too conscious of how many people were in the chapel. It was full. He was more than nervous. He was terrified. He had almost crumpled the page with his notes on it.

"Don't worry, Tim. It'll be okay," Naomi whispered in his ear.

"No, it won't," Tim whispered back. "I feel sick."

"Just breathe, hon."

Tim tried.

"_...his illustrious Navy career was only just beginning when an injury forced his retirement..."_

He hadn't seen his friends come in, but he knew they were there...he _hoped_ they were back there...somewhere. All the family was at the front of the chapel and he hadn't been aware enough as they walked in to notice. The closed casket dominated the front of the chapel. It wasn't as fancy as some...but that was because Sam had picked it out himself, choosing the simplest one he could find.

"_...with the birth of his second child, Sarah..."_

There wasn't even room inside himself to feel grief, so deep was his terror about getting up and speaking. There was no room for guilt, for sorrow...only the anxiety about saying the right words.

"_...success as a professor of Literature, specializing in..."_

"Breathe, Tim," Naomi whispered.

"You should do this, Mom. You'd be better."

"No, I wouldn't. You'll be fine."

"Not if I throw up into the microphone."

"Stop worrying."

"_...a shame that such a life had to come to a premature end but..."_

Jim had always possessed the ability to speechify. Tim envied him because it was obvious that he was grieving like anyone else, but it didn't stop him from speaking clearly and eloquently.

"Tim!"

Tim jumped and looked up. There was no one at the pulpit. It was his turn.

"Go on, Tim," Naomi said. "You'll be fine."

Tim tried to smile but suddenly he felt numb. Somehow, he managed to stand and walk to the front, but he wasn't sure he would be able to say anything. Shaking, he pulled out his page of notes and then stared at the coffin. He didn't notice how oppressively silent it was in the chapel. He was just trying to keep himself from either passing out or freaking out in front of friends, family and perfect strangers. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked up at the crowd. It didn't make him feel much better...until he saw Abby stand up...ostensibly to adjust her dress, but he knew that wasn't why she had done it. It was to let him see where they were. ...and they were all there. His friends. His teammates. Arrayed across one aisle in all their idiosyncratic glory. As soon as Abby made eye contact, she smiled and sat down, almost demurely. Tim managed a smile...and finally found the strength to start talking.

"Hi... I'm supposed to be giving the eulogy." Tim laughed weakly. "My dad would want you all to know what that means. Eulogy is comes from the Greek words, _eu_ and _logos_ meaning, good word. A eulogy is supposed to be a speech of praise...usually for someone who has died. Like my dad." Tim stopped and wiped at his eyes. "The real praise is not in the words I'm going to say. It's in the fact that I can see here...in this room...so many people my dad touched. Family. Friends. Students. Navy buddies. You're all here to say good-bye. The fact that you...care enough to do it. That means something. You're here because Dad was the kind of person who drew people to him. He seemed never to be down, always ready to help in any way he could. He embraced life...and all it had to offer...to offer him."

Tim paused again. Not just because of the tears which were threatening once more...but because of what he was about to say. He still wasn't sure it was right.

"Now...I'm going to tell you all something that...might seem out of place in a eulogy. As Uncle Jim said, Dad became paralyzed in a car accident sixteen years ago. ...when I was driving." Tim couldn't look at any of the family. He stared either at the pulpit or back where his friends were sitting. He didn't want to risk seeing any blame. "You all know that...but what most of you _don't_ know is that a few months after...the accident, Dad tried to commit suicide."

Tim stopped speaking again, and this time, even he could feel the oppressive silence.

"You might be wondering why I'm telling you this. My family might be wondering if it's appropriate. We didn't talk about it much after it happened, wanting to...move on from it...as Dad did. ...but this truly is in praise of my father. In order to really understand how...how amazing he was...you have to see how low he fell. You can't appreciate the highs until you've...seen the horrible depths...of the lows."

Tim wished that he had thought to bring up some Kleenex or even a handkerchief. He couldn't stop the tears, no matter how unmanly they might be.

"You've all heard...about how he was in the Navy, how active he was...how independent he was. Imagine, if you can, how hard it was for my dad to accept being confined to a wheelchair. He went from running and...and all that...to not even being able to sit up by himself in the beginning. It was like going from total freedom to a life's sentence in the prison of his own body. And...and..." Tim had to stop and just breathe for a few seconds. His nerves were gone. Vanished into the void, replaced by his grief. "...after a while he decided that he wouldn't tolerate it. His life had already ended, he thought. It was just that his body hadn't had the sense to die."

It was so quiet in the chapel. Tim knew that the majority of the people there didn't know about this. They were hearing about his brush with death for the first time. It was a shock to them.

"So...he arranged everything, figured out the timing...wrote his suicide note and saw us all off. Sarah and I went to school. Mom went to work. ...and Dad was going to die." Tim forced a short laugh through his tears. "Obviously...he didn't go through with it. He was...stopped. ...but for the first time, we saw how low...how far he had fallen. There seemed to be nothing left of Sam McGee. We were so afraid we would never see him again. You know what people say about suicide attempts. If the person is serious, they'll keep trying and trying until they succeed. Well...I'm sure that Dad wanted to die at that point. ...but when he saw what that would have done to...to us, he didn't do it... He might have felt like trying again, but he never did. He began to try to live instead of trying to die. I don't think anyone can really appreciate how hard that must have been for him. How difficult it was to accept the life that he had."

Deep breaths and for a moment, Tim met his mother's gaze. She was crying but smiling in encouragement.

"He had to accept that...that there were limits now to the places he could go...to the things he could do. ...but being my dad, he constantly tried to push those limits and get farther and farther. He had to accept that we couldn't afford a car that would...allow him to drive himself. He had to accept that some places he might have wanted to go were not wheelchair accessible. ...and he had to accept the very likely possibility that his life span had been shortened...which it was. ...and...and this is why telling you about what happened is the greatest...greatest praise I could give to my dad. He had to accept all that...and he did. Dad accepted what he had lost and embraced what he still had...and what he could still gain."

Tim couldn't see his notes anymore. Even the congregation was mostly a smear of black...but it didn't matter. He remembered what he had left to say.

"This is why...you're all here. Most of you didn't know how Dad had felt. ...and that's because he stopped feeling that way. There were probably times when he regretted what happened, wished that he could walk again...but he didn't let that dictate how he lived his life. He went back to teaching. He still did research. He helped out where he could...and..." Tim laughed. "...and volunteered his family when he couldn't."

A laugh rippled through the audience.

"And Dad remained the same kind of person he had been. Intelligent, kind, driven...obsessively organized. He planned out his funeral. It's his fault that I'm giving this eulogy. You can...can...blame him that I'm up here." Another shaky laugh. "I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to be the one to say all that had to be said. Dad's the one who always has the right words to say. In fact...the...the night he died...we were talking on the phone. He was wishing me a happy birthday and...and he quoted Syrus when he said, 'Speech is the mirror of the soul; as a man speaks, so is he.' He was trying to tell me that I could speak when it mattered. He said that...right before he died. I don't know if I've...shown you well enough who Dad was. ...but I've done my best...and I hope that..." Tim looked at the casket and then upward. "...that I've done what you wanted me to do, Dad." Tim sniffled a couple of times and was surprised when a hand touched his arm and another held out a box of tissues. He laughed and took a couple. "Thanks. I...I was just thinking that I should have brought some myself."

Tim let the silence fall once more while he wiped his eyes, his nose...but it was an easier silence this time.

"Those of you who have spent more than...five seconds in my dad's company know how much he loved the words of Winston Churchill. I swear that he had...every speech memorized." Tim laughed again. "There was never an event, a moment that went by, but that Winston Churchill had something to say about it. When Dad and I were trapped in the car, right after the accident, he quoted Winston Churchill. I didn't remember this...not until just a few days ago, but it describes my dad, and who he was...who he is. He said that 'the pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; the optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.' My dad went from seeing nothing worth living for...to the optimist who sees everything to live for. That was my dad. That was my dad. I...I'm not sure how to end this but to say...thank you for coming...and thank you to Dad for teaching me so many valuable lessons. Thank you."

Tim grabbed a few more tissues and, wiping his eyes, walked down from the pulpit to rejoin his family. Naomi and Sarah both hugged him tightly.

"See, Tim? I told you you'd be fine."

"Yeah. You did."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim didn't get a chance to talk to the others until after the graveside service. That was just for family, and a couple of close friends. It was very short, and at the end of it, they all took a handful of earth and sprinkled it on the coffin. There was one last prayer and then they left. Tim, Naomi and Sarah stayed behind, wanting a last moment together as a family. They stood in front of the grave, arms around each other, not speaking. There was no need for words. All they needed was each other.

Finally, though, it really was time to say their last good-byes. Each one quietly walked by the grave and then the three of them walked together back to the church.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"That was beautiful, Tim," Abby said, hugging him tightly.

"Thanks for standing up. I needed somewhere to look."

"I wish I could have gotten to know him, Probie. He sounds like a great guy."

"He is." Tim looked at Gibbs. "Thanks for coming, Boss."

"My pleasure."

"As far as can be possible in a situation like this, Timothy, it was lovely. I don't think a man could want more in life than to be loved as much as Sam McGee was."

Tim smiled and nodded. "Yeah."

Ducky shook his hand while Gibbs gave him a one-armed hug. Tony followed suit...and then Abby finally let go.

"Ziva?"

"Yes, McGee?"

"What did you say to me? Last night?"

"It was a traditional phrase spoken to the bereaved who are sitting shiva. 'You should have no more pain.'

"Thank you," Tim said quietly.

"Now that we are leaving, I will say one more: 'May the Omnipresent comfort you among the other mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.'"

"That's beautiful."

Ziva hugged him and then stood back. "We will be happy to see you back next week, McGee. ...and I hope that you have found some peace."

"I have. Thank you, Ziva."

One by one, Tim's friends from NCIS took their leave, each in their own way...and with their departure, Tim felt a loosening of the lead weight in his chest. His father was dead and he would miss him, but like Sam, he didn't have to face any of that alone. In sharing the sorrow, he had lightened his own burden.

"Tim?"

"Yeah, Mom?"

"Let's go home."

"Okay."

The McGees left together.


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Tim? Sarah? Could you two come in here for a minute?" Naomi called.

"What is it, Mom?" Sarah asked, coming into the living room. It was Sunday. They'd be leaving tomorrow.

"Wait for your brother. Tim?"

The door to the study opened and Tim came out. If his guilt and grief had ebbed, he still was mourning and no one would deny his right to do so. It was just that it showed so glaringly in his eyes.

"Yeah, Mom?"

"Can you come in here?"

"Sure."

"You two all packed?"

"Mostly," Sarah said and then hesitated. "Mom?"

"What?"

"Will you be okay? Here? By yourself?"

Naomi smiled. "Are you two worried?"

"We just don't want you to be lonely," Tim said.

"I won't be. Melissa has decided that I need looking after and told me in no uncertain terms that I would be meeting her for lunch every day. ...and I'll find other things to fill my day until I can get a job. Don't worry about me. That wasn't what I called you in here for."

"Then what?"

"Your father and I...we were going to wait until Christmas, but...well, I don't see any reason to wait now. I think you'll appreciate having them." She held out two books.

"What is this?" Tim asked.

"_My Life in Quotations_?" Sarah read.

"By Sam McGee?" Tim said. "Dad wrote a book?"

"Is it an anthology?"

"Not exactly. It's more like a combination of his memoirs, a kind of autobiography, and a collection of quotable quotes."

"When did he start writing this?" Sarah asked. "I didn't know anything about it. Did you, Tim?"

"Not until this moment."

"Apparently, he'd been working on it for years...on the sly," Naomi said. "He didn't say a word about it to me...not until last year."

Tim opened it up and began scanning through the contents.

"When last year?"

"At the same time they found those clots in his legs and he made me help him plan his funeral. He was working on the proofs at the time and wanted me to look over them, too. I asked him why he was publishing a book on his life when his life wasn't over yet."

"What did he say?" Sarah asked.

"He said that with you turning twenty-one and both of you out of the house, it had severely cut down on the number of quotations he used in his daily life."

"What about when we got married or something special like that?"

"I asked him, and he said that would be in volume two..._A Grandpa's Life in Quotations_."

Sarah laughed.

"The publisher sent these copies in advance, but I'm going to see about getting a note added that Sam has died. It will delay its release...but I think it's worth it."

Tim was silent as he skimmed through various parts of the book. Then, he stopped on a page and began to read, surprise on his face.

"What is it, Tim?"

"How in the world did he even remember our first quote war?" Tim asked, his voice thick but he was almost smiling.

"You know your father. He had a mind for them. Actually, I think he wrote them down whenever you left," Naomi said with a smile of her own.

"He has the poems he made me learn," Sarah said, laughing. "Even Shel Silverstein! Look, Tim. It's in the chapter called 'How to torture your child in three easy steps'."

Tim flipped back to the page and laughed. "The one about sucking your thumb...and 'My Beard'."

"Read the preface," Naomi said. "Tim, read aloud."

Tim turned to the opening pages and began to read. "'This is neither strictly a memoir nor an anthology. It is a recounting of a family's life. Not that the end of this book is the end of the family but that the end is an opening for more. You, the reader, will find a lot of humor in these pages, but that is not all it is because a family is not only happy. There are moments of sadness, moments of anger, but always a family.'" Tim put his arm around Sarah's shoulders and continued to read. "'It begins with my introduction to the wonderful world of quotations and ends when my daughter turned twenty-one.

'When I was in college, I read two quotations by famous people. The first was by Ralph Waldo Emerson. He is reported to have said, 'I hate quotations. Tell me what you know.' The second is by Winston Churchill who said, 'It is a good thing for an uneducated man to read books of quotations. The quotations, when engraved upon the memory, give you good thoughts. They also make you anxious to read the authors and look for more.' Well, I knew with whom I agreed. Thus began my love of quotations. I bought an anthology and began to read them. It was a pleasant surprise to me that I could remember them easily. It seemed that someone had said something which related to every moment of my life. Just ask my wife how successful my use of quotations was in our courtship. She didn't marry me for my good looks. If you're trying to woo a young lady, memorize the words of Victor Hugo when he said, 'What I feel for you seems less of earth and more of a cloudless heaven.' Then, see if she does not melt in your arms. ...as my wife melted in mine.'"

Naomi laughed and moved over to the couch to sit beside her children.

"'This book is organized into the following chapters: my introduction to quotes and my first fumbling attempts to use them, my courtship of my wife, my service in the Navy, my marriage, my retirement from the Navy, torturing my children...one at a time, the quote wars, the hard times, children leaving home...again, one at a time, love in the family.

"'I hope my family will forgive me a moment of sentimentality before I begin the book in earnest. An acknowledgments page would not be enough for me to express my gratitude at having my family with me. They have been life to me. Naomi is the air I breathe every day and reminds me of how much I have in this life. Sarah is the daughter who came to us as an unexpected blessing which we received gratefully, a sign that there is always more good in the world. Timothy is our son who never did what we expected but whose devotion to his friends is only surpassed by his love of his family...and Tim is my own personal lifesaver.'" Tim stopped reading. Sarah took the book from him and continued.

"'It would be impossible for me to say how much I love my family and how grateful I am to have them, to have the life I have been granted. I came close to losing it all and the fact that I didn't is a gift, one that I can never repay. In sum, this book is not so much a memoir as it is a tribute, both to the scholars, orators, politicians who came before and to my family who gives my life meaning.'"

"Your father really could be eloquent on his own when he chose to be," Naomi said, wiping her tears. "Anyway, those copies are for you. When the final version is ready, you'll get them."

"It's wonderful, Mom," Tim said.

They sat together on the couch for a long time in silence. After a while, they began taking turns reading parts of the various chapters, laughing, crying...celebrating the life of someone they loved, feeling a kind of healing from the sorrow they shared. Tomorrow, they would have to go back to normal life, but there would now be something missing from it. And yet, life would go on. Remembering Sam would be less of a burden and more of a cherished memory...and in the harder moments, they would remember the poem Sarah recited at the funeral.

_**Crossing the Bar**  
__Alfred, Lord Tennyson_

_Sunset and evening star,  
__And one clear call for me,  
__And may there be no moaning of the bar,  
__When I put out to sea._

_But such a tide as moving seems asleep,  
__Too full for sound and foam,  
__When that which drew from out the boundless deep  
__Turns again home._

_Twilight and evening bell,  
__And after that the dark!  
__And may there be no sadness of farewell,  
__When I embark;_

_For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place  
__The flood may bear me far,  
__I hope to see my Pilot face to face  
__When I have crossed the bar._

FINIS!


End file.
